Death Becomes Me (Call Me Grim Book 2) (15 page)

17

Summer fizzles with a sigh of relief. The sticky-hot August days mellow in September to the familiar chilly crisp of autumn. This would be my senior year. As my friends and acquaintances at Carroll Falls High look forward to college, to prom, to life, I’m stuck here in the suburb of Chicago. Yes, I’m alive, and I’m doing more artwork than I ever did before and getting paid real money for it, but I still feel isolated and stuck.

I roll onto my back and tug the covers away from my face. It’s been three hours since I first crawled into bed and sleep continues to dance around me, just out of reach. I’ve tried everything. Counting sheep, emptying my mind, some trick Nicholas taught me where I pretend my body is filling with sand. Nothing works. Every time I think I’m about to doze off, more thoughts pop into my brain and yank the dancing sleep fairy away. There’s only one thing I can try now. Warm milk.

The cool night air raises goose bumps on my skin as I pull the blanket back and get out of bed. My feet find my fuzzy slippers on the floor where I left them hours ago. I wrap my blanket around my body, protection against the chill. Nicholas may have rigged this old house with most modern amenities, but he hasn’t managed to get rid of the draft.

Aaron’s soft snores filter through his door as I make my way to the stairs. I stop at his door and place a hand on the knob. Would he mind if I came in? I’m sure he wouldn’t. Maybe I could sleep, if his arms were around me. Or maybe I wouldn’t be able to sleep at all. Maybe we’d both get swept up in making out. And maybe it’d lead to something more. But I can’t let that happen. As long as there’s a shred of fear that I’m not right for Aaron and that he should embrace his new life and be with Renee, I just can’t.

They’ve been talking a lot more at work. Flirting, really. I don’t know if Aaron realizes it, but I see it. She touches his arm whenever she can, laughs at every joke he makes, even the lame ones, and bats her great big eyes at him all damn day. And I say nothing. Because she’s perfect for him.

Ugh. Snap out of it.

Something thumps downstairs and I drop my hand from his doorknob. I should have known. Nicholas is awake.

I make my way down the stairs. The brilliant light of Nicholas’s soul illuminates the living/machine room. He’s hidden behind a tall piece of equipment, but I can hear the tap, tap, tap of his fingers on a keyboard.

I tiptoe through the machinery room to the kitchen. If I can, I try not to disturb him when he’s working. Not that it matters. When he’s in the zone, pretty much nothing disturbs him, except the pull of a dying soul, or a call from Abaddon.

“Libbi,” Nicholas says as I reach the kitchen archway. “What are you doing up at this ungodly hour?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” I turn and smile at him over my shoulder. “I have insomnia. I thought some warm milk might help.”

“Me too.” Nicholas chuckles. “I thought work would help, but maybe you have the right idea. Mind if I join you?”

“Sure.” I flip the light on in the kitchen. It’s a habit. My soul gives off more than enough light to see by. “Two cups of sleepy juice, coming up.”

I grab the milk out of the refrigerator and set it on the counter next to the stove. The saucepan is in the cabinet above the sink. I get it down and place it on a burner. Nicholas refuses to get a microwave—he says it interferes with his work—so any cooking must be done the old fashioned way.

“So, what’s keeping you awake tonight?” Nicholas retrieves two mugs and places them on the counter next to me.

“Just thinking, I guess.” I pour milk into the pan. “Do you have any spices? Vanilla extract?”

“Above the refrigerator.” He jabs a thumb over his shoulder.

“Thanks.” I open the cupboard above the fridge and find a brown bottle of vanilla extract next to a jar of cinnamon. I have to move things around to find the nutmeg and honey. With all four ingredients in hand, I return to the stove and set to work. I don’t know if it works on a scientific level, but it sure used to work when I was a kid. Just mixing the ingredients together is making my eyelids heavy.

“What were you thinking about?” Nicholas takes the spoon from my hand and stirs the steaming concoction.

“What?” I meet his eyes, slightly confused.

“You said you couldn’t sleep because you were thinking. What were you thinking about?”

“Oh,” I take the spoon back for a taste of the milk. It’s sweet, warm, and soothing, like a hug when I’ve been crying. If I could make my mom into a drink, this would be it. “I guess I’ve been thinking about Abaddon, mostly. Reapers. The rules. How much all of this sucks.” I pour half of the milk into one mug and half into the other. There’s no way I’m sharing my thoughts on Renee with Nicholas. “Enjoy.” I hand Nicholas one of the mugs.

“Thank you.” He takes a sip and his face lifts with happiness. “Wow, Libbi. This is delicious.” He takes another sip before sitting down at the table.

“I know, right?” I sit across from him and wrap my hands around the mug, letting the warmth seep into my chilled bones. “It’s my mother’s recipe.”

Nicholas props his elbows on the table. His hazel eyes scrutinize me. I’d feel like a bug under a microscope if it wasn’t for the knot of concern in his brow.

“You miss her, don’t you?” he says.

“Every day.” I lift the mug to my lips and let the memory of my mom fill me. “I just wish I’d realized how much she means to me back when I could tell her.”

“Hmm.” Nicholas nods like he understands, but I don’t know if he really does. He takes another sip of milk.

“I don’t get it.” I rest my heavy head in my hand. “Why does Abaddon control us like this? Why are there so many rules? Rules that seem to be there just to keep us Reapers separated and in line. It doesn’t feel like he has the best interest of anyone in mind, except himself, but I can’t figure out what he’s after. None of it makes sense.”

“Don’t worry. You’re not the only one confounded by this puzzle.” Nicholas reaches across the table and touches the back of my hand. “That is precisely what I was working on when you came down the stairs tonight.”

“It is?” I meet his eyes, curiosity piqued.

If he’s not out collecting souls and herding them to the Gateway, he’s usually working. I’ve never asked what he’s working on, not because I don’t want to know, but because I don’t think I’d understand. I’ve never been the math-and-science type of girl. But if he’s willing to tell me about it, I’ll at least listen.

“It is.” He nods. “Remember when I said Abaddon doesn’t have rules, he has limitations?”

“Yes,” I say. I vaguely remember him saying something like that weeks ago when he talked about Scythe travel, and Gateways, and all of that multiverse stuff.

“Rules are set by someone or something with intelligence, for other intelligent beings to follow.” He sets his mug down and leans forward. “Limitations, however, are set by nature. Rules can easily be broken, but limitations require innovation to be overcome. And some limitations can’t be overcome at all.”

“You’re losing me, Nicholas.” I might as well be honest. “I mean, I get what you’re saying, but I don’t get where you’re going with it.”

Nicholas rolls his eyes like I’m being purposefully dense, though I’m not.

“I don’t believe Abaddon follows rules set by a higher being. I believe he’s physically limited by the nature of his environment. He’s not an angel, or a demon. He’s something completely different.”

“Okay, like what? An alien?” To stifle the skeptical note in my voice, I sip my milk. It’s a bit cool now, but it’s still good.

“I don’t know,” he says. He couldn’t be more serious if I had a gun to his head. “What if he’s a creature that living humans can’t encounter on this plane? A creature who studies our culture, our myths, our beliefs, our weaknesses. A creature that found a way to use that knowledge against us.”

“Like a demon.” I don’t mean to sound contradictory, but he just said what I imagine the dictionary has as the definition of a demon.

“No.” He shakes his head. “Like a predator. A predator that physically can’t hunt on our plane because of his limitations.”

“I’m sorry. What?” My hand drifts to my temple. All of this stuff is making my brain hurt. “How can he hunt here, if he physically can’t hunt here?”

“People can’t breathe underwater, but that doesn’t stop them from fishing. No, we drop a hook and lure into the fish’s plane of existence and we snatch him out and into ours.”

“Hold up.” My other hand moves to my other temple and I grip my head like it might fall off if I let go. “Are you comparing Reapers to fish hooks? Are you saying our only purpose is to catch Abaddon’s prey for him and drop souls in his lap like dogs trying to please the master?”

“Precisely.” Nicholas gives me a knowing smile. “Now imagine what an angry and controlling master would do if those dogs started to misbehave. If all his careful planning was starting to fail and the worm on the end of the hook learned how to break free.” The smile slips away when he sees my rage boil to the surface.

“What? How can you even—what?”

“Think about it, Libbi. It makes perfect sense.”

He’s right. It does. That’s why I’m so angry my fingernails are digging holes into my palms.

“How long have you known this?” I fix him with my murderous glare.

“It’s only a theory. And one I can’t prove.” Nicholas scoots back in his chair like he can avoid the flames that will surely burst from my eyes. “But I’ve suspected it for decades. Only recently have I had good reason to believe I’m right.”

“Decades? And you just keep bringing him souls? Day after day? For decades?”

“I have to. I have things at stake here, too, Libbi. And I don’t know if that theory is correct. What if I’m wrong? I don’t know if I could handle the consequences if I’m wrong.”

“But what if you’re right?” I want to shake him. Why is he not getting this? “Oh, wait. I remember. You know when it’s smarter to play dumb. Isn’t that what you said?” I change my voice to my best impression of a stupid cartoon character. “‘Dumb old Nicholas at your service, Mister Abaddon, sir. I’ve brought you another soul. Bon appétit.’” I fling my arms up in frustration. “Jesus, Nicholas. What kind of a person are you? Do you sprinkle the souls with parsley and oregano before you bring them to him?”

“I’m sorry. All right?” He lifts his hands and dips his head in a defensive pose. “But it’s not as bad as it sounds. There’s something I’m working on.”

“You’re always working on something,” I say. “When do you plan to
do
something, Nicholas?”

“If I stop bringing him souls, he’d catch on. I can’t afford that. None of us can. Please, listen to me.”

I tilt my chin up, telling him with my eyes that I’m willing to hear what he has to say, but not quite ready to believe it’s worth it.

“It started when I tried to find a way to leave Sam alone without causing the headache you and I know so well.”

I nod. Ah yes, the headache.

“I was trying to scramble the signal, make it more tolerable. I still haven’t figured that part out, but what I stumbled upon instead was probably more significant.” He pauses in the way only someone trying to appear dramatic or smart pauses. If he knew how close I am to throttling him he’d cut the bullshit and get on with it. “One day, I took Sam and the Scrambler to the Gateway, thinking it might help to be closer to the power source. What I discovered was the Gateway has a weakness. And I think, with enough power, I might be able to close it for good."

“What?” My insides quiver with excitement. “By close it, do you mean all of them?”

“Maybe. But not with just one device. It would likely take thousands.”

“Thousands?” And that glimmer of hope disintegrates, yet again.

“Yes, thousands.” Nicholas’s face falls. “And I can’t even figure out how to make one.”

“Are you kidding me, right now?” I ask and he just shakes his head. “You’re the smartest person I know. You have to figure it out.”

“I’ve tried. I’m still trying. And I think I’m close, but even if I figure out the problem tonight, it will be a while before I can do anything meaningful with it.” He swirls his mug and then takes a sip. “First, I’d need to make thousands of working Scramblers, then distribute them to as many Reapers as I can and get them all to cooperate with me, which, I’m sure you can imagine, will not be an easy task. And I still don’t know if I’m correct about my predator theory.”

“Of course you’re right. You have to be right.”

“But what if I’m wrong, Libbi?” he says, his voice just above a whisper. “I have another theory. One that’s not as…umm…violent.”

“Okay…” I cross my arms over my chest, waiting for him to continue. “I’m listening.”

“Perhaps Abaddon’s not a predator at all.” Nicholas glances down at his folded hands on the table. “Perhaps his relationship with us is a symbiotic one.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Sometimes his science-speak goes right over my head.

“A symbiotic relationship is a mutually beneficial relationship between two different species. Take, for instance, the clown fish and the sea anemone. The clown fish uses the sea anemone’s poisonous tentacles, to which the clown fish is immune, as protection from other predators. In exchange the clown fish eats an organism that is harmful to the sea anemone. See? They benefit each other. Do you understand?”